


Pretty Heaven

by Accidentallytechohazardous



Series: Witch AU [2]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, Witch AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3070847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accidentallytechohazardous/pseuds/Accidentallytechohazardous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Plucky Inhuman hero Shuuhei Hisagi has a not-so-chance second encounter with a potential ally, likely pain in the ass, and possible human manifestation of gods’ will. They are all the same person. Rangiku may be deeper in than she lets on, and Renji refuses to be of any help whatsoever, neither of which should come as a surprise to Shuuhei at this point. A conspiracy is hinted at, and a dangerous deal is made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Illustration by CryingLittlePeople. Check out more amazing Bleach art and original art at cryinglittlepeople.tumblr.com!

“This is a display of improper guest conduct that is bordering on audacious. Get up or I will throw this couch into the ocean, I swear to gods I will drag you to shore and set it to sea with you lying on it.”

Renji’s seething and early morning yelling is always much more tolerable after Shuuhei is already awake. And also when it’s not directed anywhere towards him, while he himself is as happy as can be with a plate of pancakes in one hand and a mug printed boldly with“Foxy Grandpa” in the other as he slides out out of the kitchen.

It’s the beginning of the week, so the wagon’s interior is on it’s usual scale of looking like a post-apocalyptic war-zone. Weekends tend to be the time where Renji gets an early start on work or begins projects that typically end up being intense and ridiculous, and Shuuhei is just impressed with himself for getting Renji to take a break from preserving various specimens in jars so he could cook without the ominous smell of formaldehyde clogging up his nose.

From the couch that Renji is looming over, a tousled head of fluffy blond hair pokes out of what appears to be a nest of blankets and quilts. Rangiku might be trying to give Renji a pouty, sour look, but the effect is somewhat dampened by her flaxen hair completely covering her eyes as well as standing in every which direction like she had been gently struck by lightning.

She makes a noise like a cat with it’s mouth full of cotton and sounding kind of like “MMffmfm.” before slightly more eloquently responding. “Seriously? Jeeze, Renji, it’s not like I was up all night chasin’ after some kelpies that got into the bay- thanks ever so much for that magic fish food you whipped up, as it was completely useless. I still managed to get so sea-sick that the things probably surged the boat just to get me to quit puking in their water.”

“I guess can’t magic can’t even fix you, and that’s no fault of mine. Dammit, Rangiku, I’m a Witch. Not a doctor. ” Renji fumes, slightly more subdued with his arms folded over his chest.

Rangiku slithers with a sort of loopy grace out of the pile she has constructed on the couch that was once a temporary sleeping arrangement, but eventually worked it’s way up to permanent Rangiku Habitarium. Shuuhei can’t really pinpoint when “Rangiku is going to crash here for a few days” became “Rangiku is living here now. There’s nothing you can do about it. There’s nothing that anyone can do about it. This is your reality ”. Truly, he didn’t even realize how deeply the lines were drawn in the sand until there was a new mug in the pantry, a purple toothbrush on the sink, and no hot water in the mornings.

It is, Shuuhei decides as he watches her fluidly duck under Renji’s swatting arm while he gesticulates at her furiously and pick up an entire pancake from the plate, something of an improvement to the ole’ homestead.

The knight perches on the table, cat-like and content and chewing on a flapjack, shooting Shuuhei a “Hey! This is good!” while Renji, temporarily defeated, shuffles to his usual spot at the table and waits for Shuuhei to put down the mug and push a few cakes onto his plate for him. Two of the most powerful and adept humans that Shuuhei has ever met, early and unshowered and sporting bed-heads that look like death itself. That old saying about telling a lot about a man by the company they keeps suddenly creeps into his mind.

“Well, as long as I’m here,” Rangiku says between a bite of whole-wheat chocolate chip pancake, and Shuuhei has to assume that by “here” she means “conscious and functionally moving”, “Can I borrow Shuuhei? I wanna go into town and need an extra set of arms and legs.”

Shuuhei’s dagger-teeth knock against the porcelain of his mug somewhat painfully and he gives her a twisted expression that he hopes portrays his state of half-indignation and half-curiosity. “You wanna ‘borrow’ me?”

He has a reason to be struck by this request- Rangiku is true to the nature that suited her to the Cohorts, loyally following whoever she chose to follow. Renji’s business in the magic trade isn’t something to sniff at, not for a free-lance Witch who goes spell by spell into good money, but it’s a homely lemonade stand compared to the kind of work Shuuhei imagines she should be doing from a big name business, but here she is.

As such, Renji is the one with the connections and the jobs, and Shuuhei is bound to do pretty much whatever Renji does, which takes up the greater part of his day. And Rangiku, knight and Legionnaire, seems somehow content to tag along with everything that they get up to. With an another warm body to run errands with and an honest-to-gods brawler for the heavy lifting work on their team, Shuuhei doesn’t complain about Rangiku’s apparently unwise career choices.

Eyes like dark whiskey meet Rangiku’s blues with the same degree of surprise as Shuuhei is feeling, only channeled into a hard knot of skepticism. Renji has to wait until his cheeks are no longer ballooned with food to reply. “He’s not the family station wagon, Ran’. I can’t just give ya’ the keys and tell you to bring him home before dark with nary a scratch.”

Her gaze swivels to land defiantly on Shuuhei, a quirk of a slender, golden brow as if cuing for his support. Shuuhei, for his part, isn’t quite ready to get committed to anything that he isn’t guaranteed to regret later. A half-breath of a quarter-sigh whistles through his fangs and he asks again dutifully. “You want to ‘borrow’ me?”

“I need to stop down by the Cohort’s office.” Rangiku explains. The note of reluctance in Shuuhei’s voice is obvious enough to get her on the defensive, hands held up palms-out in a clear ‘Look how sincere and non-threatening I’m being’, which Shuuhei stopped falling for somewhat indefinitely after it ended with him getting side-swept after agreeing to some of what she calls combat training. “I want to log in a few of our recent misadventures and see if they correspond with any cases on the job list that we could get credit for. Bring home some extra cash on the side. Ooh, not to mention-”

She claps her hands in a way that is somehow both whimsical and vaguely intimidating, “If I get enough stars under my name on the Death Board, I could put in an application for a new melee weapon! I bet its gonna be an axe.”

“What’s the Death Board?”

“It’s the board where you record all the monsters you’ve killed.” Rangiku explains while giving him a rather obvious look. “That’s why its the Death Board.”

“Of course.”

Shuuhei’s gaze slides over to Renji’s expectantly. The Witch’s inked brow furrows and his shrugs broad shoulders. “I might as well take the shuttle down with you. Catch up with my coven. What’ya wanna do?”

Shuuhei doesn’t have anything else particularly interesting to do, now that he think about it. He could just stay home and mill around like a sad sack or trail after Renji and his Witch buddies, all of whom have familiars that are plain animals and definitely won’t entertain Shuuhei in conversation while their Custodians are busy discussing magic and convoluted spell-casting at the Grown-Up table. At least not without snacks.

“Sure, I’ll stick with Matsumoto.” Shuuhei shrugs and is immediately gratified with a fist-pump in the air from Rangiku. A creepy-crawly sensation slithers up his spine- he’s never seen the inside of the Cohort’s headquarters before. Rangiku is the only one he knows who has.

The Cohorts are world-famous for their talents in monster slaying. He has neglected to research their policies on guys with freaky-looking faces who aren’t strictly acceptable in polite social discourse.

By the time everyone’s fed and dressed, rain is picking up outside the wagon. Not that anybody would have been able to tell from inside the enchanted-sixteen-ways-to-Sunday bubble of unreality that the wagon contains, so the smell of wet dirt and waterlogged sky hits like an affectionate slap on the nose when the three of them step outside.

Whence the wagon last rolled, it came to a halt with its wooden wheels sunk a good few inches into the mud like it was rooted in. Shuuhei is more than aware that unless Renji has something on hand to dislodge it, it could very well take all three occupants to push it out. But this is a problem for another day, and pales in comparison to the immediate disaster of mud caking the slick sheen of Shuuhei’s boots.

“Seriously? Goddamn.” Shuuhei grumbles through his tightly wrapped scarf and shakes his foot hard enough to dislodge ugly brown-gray clumps of dirge. Such fury lays behind these kicks that he ends up having to windmill his arms to avoid toppling himself backwards and is rescued by Renji and Rangiku catching him by the sleeve on either side and pushing him back upright. This is exactly what Shuuhei gets for being the first one out the door.

“Oh, grow up.” Renji’s fingers roughly muss through Shuuhei’s hair, brusque but teasing tone sounding further away against the surround-sound of raindrops falling hard enough to clap on the wagon roof and strike hard and cold on Shuuhei’s forehead.

Shuuhei, who has never exactly been a fan of nasty weather to begin with, shoves his fists in his coat pocket dejectedly and stomps after him very, very lightly. “C’mon, man. These boots are the nicest thing I’ve bought in years. They’re gonna get all smudgy.” They’re also not actually made for boot-like purposes such as mud and dirt but. Y’know. Fashion. The Look!

Renji’s grimy sneakers make striped footprints in the ground and Rangiku’s sporty tennis shoes callously getting slathered with muck quickly pass him.

“I like weather like this.” Rangiku announces, raising her chin to look up at the colorless gray of clouds rolling above them. “It looks mysterious.”

And it continues to look “mysterious” all the way to the train station, and Rangiku is looking a little less impressed with the rain the more waterlogged and stringy her hair gets, and the deeper the chill sets under her skin.

“Why didn’t we bring an umbrella?” She pokes Renji’s bicep when they’re waiting at the tracks, finally covered by the overhanging roof of the station.

“Don’t got one.” He grunts in reply, sounding like he’s regretting this fact too.

“That’s ridiculous. How do two grown men not own an umbrella between them?” Rangiku marvels and wrings some rainwater out of her hair, and Shuuhei debates informing her that technically everything ‘they’ own belongs to Renji, but he decided to sit on it.

“What are you, our mom?” Renji grumps, and Shuuhei fails to resist a small huff of “For fuck’s sake, you two.”

Two of the most powerful and adept humans he’s ever met, Shuuhei had thought. And then the train rolls up and they peel into a fresh new wave of bickering over splitting train fare.

—

Renji splits off from the two of them at central road, and Shuuhei has every reason to believe that he’s going to stumble into one of his old covenmates in a dingy coffee shop where the espressos come in weird, unsettlingly vibrant colors and for a few coins extra you can get additional flavors like “pumpkin hemorrhage” and “spider extract” and “batfuck weird”. Shuuhei has often wanted to ask if those flavors are actually appealing. But like most things where Witches are involved, there’s the general feeling that if you need to have it explained to you then you probably wouldn’t get it.

Shuuhei makes his coffee at home.

Rangiku doesn’t seem to be in a rush to get to the headquarters. Her eyes are bright and dabbled with spots of light like the rain against store windowpanes, lit with the sheer satisfaction of being outside and about, and Shuuhei is inclined to agree that there’s a certain kind of charm to being in the streets when the sidewalks are practically empty and everything is dark and slick. It’s like being inside of an oil painting, pristine and dark and natural.

Shuuhei’s bangs are pasted to his forehead, longer strands flattened to his cheeks and in his eyes, and Rangiku looks smaller with her hair and clothes all wet like a cat out of the bath. It’s nice, albeit decidedly chilly. They duck into a small shop to warm up and get styrofoam cups of potato and bourbon soup, and when Shuuhei takes the time to remember that he can’t take off his face gear in public, they duck back outside to find somewhere secluded.

He maybe should have started to get suspicious when Rangiku began to gravitate to the tower of the cathedral like a beacon, like a moth to candlelight.

The fountain of the Ash Goddess looks even more imposing in the rain, gray stones dyed black and the spindly apple tree bent over the basin with weight. Vibrant drops of pink petals dance in the clear water amidst the chaos of the fountain jets and the raindrops, thrashing but never quite sinking to the bottom.

Rangiku sits against the edge, and it occurs to Shuuhei that this is exactly how they met what seemed like forever ago. Rangiku surreptitiously looks up and down the street before conspiratorily muttering “Okay, the coast is clear.”

It still feels bizarre and unsafe to unravel his scarf out in the open like this. It’s not quite in public on account of there being no one else around, and it’s not quite well-lit enough to say it’s in broad daylight, but it certainly isn’t what he’s used to. The new muzzle, after the old one was broken beyond repair, makes a clattering sound when he sets in on the fountain rim and he takes a breath full of impossibly clean, impossibly fresh air.

“Wow.” Shuuhei breathes. He finally shoves a heaping spoonful of soup in his mouth (it takes a little finagling to figure out how to work the spoon past his teeth) and the pepper puts a satisfying, burning tingle on his tongue. “Wow.”

“‘S it good?” Rangiku asks, fishing around in her jacket pocket for the packet of crackers she nicked on the way out.

“I haven’t eaten anything I didn’t cook for myself in years.” Shuuhei admits, sounding maybe almost as embarrassed as he actually feels to admit that. “Feels nice to taste someone else’s food once in a while.”

Rangiku talks around small mouthfuls of oyster crackers, chewing thoughtfully. “I guess you guys don’t usually eat out, do you?”

As an answer, Shuuhei taps the tip of his spoon against one pearly, needle-tipped incisors. “Nope. These babies aren’t exactly wearable in polite company, and they scrape up the good silverware.” They only have one set of silverware in Renji’s wagon, and it’s not for Shuuhei. He’s perfectly fine with it that way, on account of metal shavings are a bit harder to swallow down than your occasional delicious snack of raw bacon.

Rangiku stares at him patiently with her back straight and her shoulders set, a kind of laser-like focus on Shuuhei’s face. She stares at him with an expectation that’s not quite hopeful, but more decided. The determined kind of look that could make the sun rise in the morning.

She’s waiting for him to finally tell her what’s up with the teeth, and he’s not taking the bait. Not yet, at least. He fills his mouth with another spoonful and manages to spear a wedge of potato on a fang.

“So this errand, then…” Shuuhei prompts in a flawless bout of changing the subject. You could not possibly find a smoother transition in conversation.

The goal wasn’t to impress Rangiku or anything, and in that respect he has succeeded stupendously because she gives him a dull, flat sort of look like one might give a particularly petulant child that they’ve been forced to contend with. She wiggles her finger towards her upper lip. “You got a lil’ something.”

She gets a sore look and a reluctant Shuuhei fumbling with the potato caught in his incisors before she continues on dolefully. “Weeeell, the funny thing about that is- I wasn’t exactly telling the truth when I said I was going to HQ.”

On account of the fact that Shuuhei was half-expecting this anyways, he’s not particularly awestruck while he picks at his teeth. “No battle-axe?”

“No battle-axe.” Rangiku agrees, sounding legitimately disappointed. “My business isn’t the kicking ass and chopping off monster heads today, Shuuhei. I gots a spiritual sort of shenanigans to get to upstairs. But like. Actually upstairs.”

And she points her plastic spoon towards the cathedral tower, and for some reason Shuuhei continues to fail at being shocked. “Seriously?”

“Hey, come on!” Rangiku raises her hand defensively, a stubborn twist to her pursed lips. “I couldn’t just up and announce I was going here in front of Renji. You think I don’t know how Witches feel about the Church? What that kid gets up to with the dark gods is his own business, but I don’t need that kind of heretical noise in my direction. You, I figured, would be a little more open-minded. You could accompany me in and I’d get my business taken care of before we have to be home for dinner.”

“I’m not religious.” Shuuhei points out.

“Allegiances?” Rangiku asks, eyebrow arched high.

He shrugs his shoulders in response. “No family lineage. Never pledged my loyalty to a god. Never got a blessing from one. I’m about as unaligned as you can get while still having more spiritual sentience than a rock.”

“There is a Rock God, I think.”

“I genuinely do not care even a little. As far as I know, the universe could be a hologram and all magic that we attribute to gods is science we can’t comprehend. It makes no difference to me.”

“Well that’s just too bad, because you have to come anyways.” Rangiku insists, setting down her styrofoam cup defiantly before stomping over and taking a firm handful of Shuuhei’s jacket sleeve. “Please? I think you’d like it. Just check it out with me this one time, and I’ll never bring it up again. Surely, you’ve thought about thinking outside the box of whatever Witches believe and do. Think of it as me offering you an educational field trip.”

Well, he’s come out all this way so far, and it seems perfectly harmless.

On the other hand, most things usually do before they bite him in the ass, and he’s very aware of this. And so he must ask: “Is this going to bite me in the ass?”  
“Nope. Don’t worry about it.” Rangiku says, brows arched together bravely but a grin dragging apart her lips, and she jabs a thumb at her chest, right over the spot where she showed him where a hollow nicked her on their first mission together. “I’m taking care of you now.”

As it turns out, the entrance of the cathedral is exactly like Shuuhei expected it to be, in that it isn’t any less spooky up close as it is from afar. Two enormous, iron-plated doors sit atop a salt-white set of marble stairs, solemnly and silently shut like two sealed lips. The enormous eye of the stained glass window hanging in the smack center of the front wall looms directly overhead. Standing below it, all that Shuuhei can see of this angle is a single glowing, technicolor sliver that turns the rain sunset hues.

“Jeeze.” Shuuhei’s boots make clapping noise as he trumps up the stairs, and each level underneath him seems too pristine and yet too solid to be from this time, as if evidence of some grander lifespan that no creature with a life as puny and finite as Shuuhei’s could hope to influence. “How old is this place?”

Rangiku has to stretch her legs in order to climb the stairs to the front door. “I don’t know, really. Seems pretty ancient, doesn’t it?” She says, wrapping her fingers around an enormous black ring hanging from the door like an old-fashioned doorknocker, and says wisely “Probably old as balls.” and with that she pries one of the doors open and spills the meager light of the gray sky above through the threshold and past the doorway.

Walking inside it a little like what Shuuhei imagines walking inside the maw of a gigantic whale must be like. If he were, like, krill or something. Something even smaller and less significant than krill, even. Like a bit of single-cell bacteria on a krill that got swallowed by a whale. He nearly puts a crick in his neck from trying to look up at the ceiling, up and up with the monumental arches that line the dark stone walls. Straight above where only the firefly flicker of lanterns and the unearthly luminescence of stained glass greet his vision.

He’d curse just from being impressed by the sight, or maybe at least whistle or something. But to do so in such a place feels at least mildly inappropriate.

Rangiku steps in front of him, torchlight that lines the walls throwing autumn-shade orange and gold on her face where raindrops stick. She looks back and motions for him to follow with a new kind of urgency, and Shuuhei gets a sinking sensation that maybe he’s not supposed to be here after all. His breathing sounds loud to his own hears through the ventilation of his muzzle, but he follows her past rows and rows of barren, solemn pews down the long line of the center aisle.

Inching closer and closer to the other side of the building, Shuuhei sees a incline down into a slightly sunken level in the floor, only about an inch lower than the rest of the floor, and he’s somewhat reassured that it doesn’t look completely alien. In fact, he can assume that this big block of granite in the middle is the alter, on account of it looks a bit like the one Renji uses for his ceremonies.

Renji’s alter is flat, and kind of visually brutal with how crude it is. With images painstakingly carved into the flesh of the stone, patterns of thunderbolts and lightning strikes like spiderwebs, and depictions of terrifying human figures with the body parts of baboons, snakes, and wild dogs. Shuuhei likes to stay in when the seasonal ceremonies are going on, because the set up looks nothing short of purely nightmarish when Renji does his worship and makes sacrifices on the bed of the alter, blood spilling over the flat side and down the faces of the dark gods. Sticky, ruddy crimson runs down in streaks over the graven images, filling each sunken groove as if becoming a part of the Dark Ones themselves,

This altar right here is beautiful, heavenly striking with gold lining worked into the intricate, artful carvings as if it had set that way buried deep deep in the earth. Four spires leap out of the corners and support an overhanging, veil-like curtain like the bars around a crib. It looks stunning and enchanted and Shuuhei wants to touch it.

Before he can work up the impulse to lift his hand towards the structure from what must be at least a few meters away like some kind of possessed shitheel, Rangiku has him by the coat lapels and takes a sharp turn to the left.

“Where exactly are we going?” It finally occurs to Shuuhei to ask as he’s dragged off to the side, where a dark doorway cuts straight through the wall and into a much smaller, much more narrow corridor like a tunnel in a warren.

“Confession.” Rangiku answers, then tows him all the way down to the end where there is, shockingly, yet another door. Quite keen on closed doors in this place, Shuuhei considers. Quite spooky. Rangiku brushes loose strands of damp hair behind her ears importantly. “He should be expecting us.”

“Who’s expecting us? What are we doing here, Matsumoto?” Shuuhei asks, finally relenting to let a trickle of uncertain dread wrap around his throat like a collar.

Rangiku’s knuckles rap on the door like shotgun fires before the she answers simply. “Izuru’s expecting us, of course. Like I’d let anyone else do my confessions.”

“Who the hell is Izuru?”

The door creaks like old bones, and then he meets Izuru.

                                                              

He looks exactly like he did on the night Shuuhei first saw him on the train, and that shocks him. Izuru hasn’t aged a day. Like, literally.

The same dark jacket zipped up to his throat, same blue pipecleaner fingers curled around the doorframe like tendrils. Even the same eerily intelligent, infinitely wondering eyes narrowed into clever slits, regarding Shuuhei like he’s a particularly interesting specimen pinned under glass. The ring on his finger glimmers like fresh snowfall at midnight, and the serpent curled in the center seems to mock Shuuhei for not predicting this arrangement. The guy looks as if he just stepped off the train compartment on that same night and straight into the doorway.

If this hasn’t been done on purpose, it’s a hell of a coincidence. And if theres one thing he’s learned (there have not been many) from living with Renji, who toys with the laws of physics as work and sport, its that coincidences are about as solid as water.

“Oh, you brought Hisagi.” He says in an expectant tone that further drives a nail into the coffin of Shuuhei’s suspicion. Izuru’s eyes roll over to Rangiku and he regards her with the appreciation of thanking her for running a bothersome errand. Like picking up milk from the store.

“And he’s happy to see you!” Rangiku gestures at Shuuhei grandly. Presumably to overcompensate for the fact that Shuuhei could not look any less pleased to be here than if a bear was in the process of tearing out his throat and and tossing his entrails over the pews like tinsel.

“It’s Kira.” Shuuhei marvels at flatly. Because of course it’s Kira. Why wouldn’t he run into his mysterious benefactor randomly? Honestly, he has to get his head in the game. “You brought me to Kira.”

It’s a little unfair to be suspicious. Shuuhei already knew that this guy was Rangiku’s friend, and that he somehow had this thumb in their business. But suspicion and hostility are about as natural as breathing to him at this point, and Izuru has this charming little smug/unimpressed ‘everything went according to plan’ look on his face that is just asking for a few broken teeth.

“Yeah, he works here.” Rangiku explains simply, motioning at Izuru like she’s giving away a brand new car. “I hang out with him sometimes, tell him about my adventures with you guys.”

The concept is so strange, the idea of Rangiku recounting information about him to a stranger, confiding in Izuru the details of her day that she won’t tell Shuuhei or Renji. With a blast of clarity, Shuuhei realizes that this weird man is Rangiku’s best friend.

He supposes, then, that he should be grateful, or at least acknowledge that Rangiku is finally divulging some intel on her own life that doesn’t revolve around cutting the heads off of things. Shuuhei’s eyes turn back to Izuru’s dolefully, stubborn but subdued. Izuru’s face is flatlined like this is exactly what he expected, and frankly that doesn’t piss Shuuhei off any less.

“Since you’re here, you might as well stay for your turn.” Izuru says, shrugging and gesturing in the air with his ink-colored fingers. “Matsumoto is first, though. Regulars get priority at the confessionals.”

“Confessionals?” Shuuhei echoes, and then realizes he’s never done a confession before. A professional, religious one, anyways. He’s never done any kind of religious ceremony before. “Look, I’m not a member of the Ch-”

“You can wait out there in the church hall until its your turn. Try to relax, alright? You’re creepy when you’re agitated.” Izuru widens the door for Rangiku to pass through, and she cranes her head back to give Shuuhei a reassuring grin. It’s wounded by the fact that her brows are knit with concern, and Shuuhei wonders if he really does look creepy when he’s agitated. Like. Looking as if he might tear up the furniture and bark at strangers if there’s no one to keep an eye on him.

“Seriously, I’ll be back before you know it. I do this hundreds of times.” Rangiku says, and Shuuhei is mildly regretful that he’s trusted her promises about three times today, and that’s three times more than he usually trusts people. “You don’t need to be so suspicious just because Renji’s not around all the time.”

And before Shuuhei can sputter indignantly at that, the door slides shut with absolutely no precursor of gentleness to be found, and Shuuhei is left alone in corridor.

With little else to do in a rather dark hallway and not quite pitiful enough to plant his ass on the floor and wait for someone to come back to him, Shuuhei drags himself back down the hall and plants his ass on a pew instead.

His arms are wrapped tight across his chest, his teeth grinding hotly beneath his layers. Sinking into the front pew until the wood digs into his back, Shuuhei gets a good view of the alter. He thought that looking at it might soothe him, or at least be visually stimulating enough to take his mind off of how bizarre this event is. The altar doesn’t look so hauntingly lovely anymore. instead the part that he thought reminded him of Renji whispers to him in a douchey voice that Renji warned him the Church was no good, so why is he even bothering to stick around? It’s not like Shuuhei has reason to trust anyone associated to it. The parts that Shuuhei thought looked independent and unique cooly taunt him instead with a look that is somehow half-indifferent and half-intrigued, as if daring him to walk back out that door.

The only way to appease these impulses, Shuuhei decides, is to stay and be particularly vehement about it. And so he does.

There’s a stereotype among locals that the Church is quite wealthy- and for all accounts they should be, considering that their establishments are never short of grandiose and elaborate, and if you don’t have a free-lance magic user on hand and need some spellwork done you can count on the Church’s services to run up a pretty high bill. Shuuhei has never been to any sort of high-class gathering that can be considered more fancy than kareoke night at a Witch bar, but Renji assures him that every dinner and cocktail party of the rich and elite has at least a dozen missionaries of the Church in attendance, glass of champagne in hand.

(He also said that they probably eat the flesh of infants and grind broken glass into poor people for fun, and Shuuhei is fairly certain he isn’t serious about this. So his sources might be skewed.)

But he certainly wouldn’t say anything about lavish adornments sitting in the hard, uncomfortable pews. Everything from the waist down has fallen asleep, and Shuuhei is beginning to consider that this place may become his tomb and they’ll find his corpse curled up on the floor and calcified like a mummy from sheer age and decay when the door to the corridor rattles on its hinges.

Salvation reappears in the form of one Rangiku Matsumoto, with her shadowy friend skulking in her shadow just in the distance. She doesn’t seem any worse for wear, so apparently this ritual doesn’t involve systematic impalement. Which does… admittedly relax Shuuhei, at least more so than he was before.

“Well, well, well-ity well,” Rangiku launches towards him with a grateful and pleased tone. She smells of mint and flowers in a way she did not before. “Look who stayed after all. Told you it’s no big deal.”

“Yes, I’m very good at staying. I also sit, lie down, and roll over if you have treats.” Shuuhei’s lower back complains as he stands up, shaking out the stiffness in his legs. “So, now….” He trails off on the hope that she’ll say they can leave, but luck is not Shuuhei’s lady tonight. Rangiku is.

“Now, it’s your turn.”

Izuru oozes around Rangiku, a long and bony hand gesturing towards Shuuhei in a way that is faintly reminiscent of an artistic depiction of the grim reaper collecting souls of the dead. “Whenever you can spare the time, guy.”

Now, Shuuhei has fussily agreed to a few sketchy requests in his time. But none of them are so sketchy as to follow a mysterious man down a dark hallway alone. On a scale of one to murder, this ranks a solid six and a half on the bad idea scale. But it will get Shuuhei out here any quicker-

And with nothing else to go on than the pure desire to get this done and over with, Shuuhei absconds down that same dark hallways, to that same shitty door. If the horror-movie scale bloodbath is destined to come, then let it have it’s way.

“We’re just up this way.” Izuru informs him, sweeping sleeve gesturing towards a spiral staircase that looks just a bit too precarious for comfort. The prayerman’s non-descript, black shoes make a surprising degree of clanging as he leads the charge up the metal steps, with Shuuhei in tow behind him.

Torches line the walls. It’s very eerie and spooky. Shuuhei makes a mental note to remind Renji to buy a fucking phone, or at least a phone for him. That way maybe he could make this dark ascent a little less dreadfully cliche. It’s while pondering this very wistful thought that Shuuhei realizes that they must be in one of the cathedral towers. Hopefully, not heading towards the top, since Shuuhei doesn’t feel like step-climbing the length of at least forty stories in one stretch,

“So… this is confessions, right.” Shuuhei says for the sake of making polite conversation. It’s not like this kid is exactly a stranger, although for all that Shuuhei knows about him he might as well be. “Is this, like, some kind of cathartic thing where I tell you stuff and you listen all wise spiritual leader-like.”

“Eh.” Izuru says wisely and spiritual leaderly. “It can be like that if you want it to be. Everyone does their ceremonies a little differently, and I’ve never been deeply invested in traditional matters.”

And with that, Izuru comes up to a point where the staircase branches off to a low doorway, and Izuru ducks inside with nary a glance back to check that Shuuhei is still on his trail. Shuuhei digresses and follows him, choosing to be grateful since the muscles in his calves are beginning to ache and whine.  
Shuuhei is surprised when the room is well-lit. In fact, its absolutely nothing like he’s seen in the rest of the cathedral. Two plush armchairs sit dead center, in front of a large stone fireplace. His boots sink into a thick rug under his feet. It’s auspiciously cozy, like Shuuhei has just stepped into a tea room on a historical aristocrat lifetime show, almost abrasively comfortable and inviting.

“This is… different.” Shuuhei appraises. His guide trudges across the carpet with the familiarity of knowing exactly where everything is, and always has been, as the Familiar regards a small vase of wildflowers on the end table next to one of the chairs. “I was expecting something more thematic.”  
“It’s hard to relax if everything is doom and gloom. Even the spookiest of us need a break once in a while.” Izuru says, ambling over to the bureau sitting on the opposite wall. He produces a bottle clasped in his needle-fingers by the neck and two wineglasses. He doesn’t wait to ask before filling both the glasses, and liquid of an atrociously neon orange swirls around it’s crystal container.

“Phoenix wine.” Izuru states factually before plugging the cork back into the bottle.

“I didn’t know that was a thing.”

“It’s very decadent.”

“Ah, well.” Shuuhei shifts his weight on his hips, not sure if he’s relaxed enough or invited to take a seat. “If you were trying to impress me, I’m afraid I’m just a little too oblivious to the finer things in life.”

“Damn. My plan is foiled.” The smile that Izuru doesn’t quite wear cuts the edge off of his tone, and he tolds out one glass of expensive eye-burn to Shuuhei. “Any time you’d like to take a seat.”

For a solid five seconds, Shuuhei inhales slowly and straightens his back. The smell of honey and dust wafts from the room into his nose, and it’s strangely soothing. “How do I know you didn’t put something in that glass before we came up here?”

“Because if there is, I’ll be taking a very long nap.” Izuru sighs, curling his outstretched arm to his side and offering the opposite glass.

Another inhale, and Shuuhei starts to reach before stopping himself. “Not if you already knew I’d ask that.”

With an expression as flat as lead, Izuru’s arms mechanically shift again and Shuuhei respectfully takes the glass that was first offered to him before dropping into the armchair. The stuffing is, in fact, so plushy he sinks about an inch downwards.

Sans a further comment, Izuru takes the seat opposite to him, and the velvet plush swells around him until it looks like it might actually be a struggle for the slighter man to get back up. The hooded man raises his glass about a fraction of an inch. “To the gods and your health.” Before leaning over the armrest and tilting the glass to dribble wine over the logs in the fireplace, which erupt into hearty yellow flames, and then takes a long sip.

Shuuhei eyes the fireplace suspiciously. Then begets to removing his scarf and muzzle, angling the lip of the glass to drain wine onto his tongue without scratching the glass. Surprisingly, it’s not bad at all.

“So.” Izuru exhales through his nose, shoulders sinking further into his chair. “Down to business.”

Shuuhei raises an eyebrow and lowers his glass, twisting it by the delicate stem. “Isn’t there some kind of mystic ritual involved? You’re a member of the clergy performing a ceremony.”

“Not really. Everyone does their confessions differently, like I already told you. Some go through the old ways, some have new and elaborate ways of clearing their patrons’ conscious. I like to sit down, chat and drink.”

“Right, chat. Like about how you showed up out of thin air on that train and then disappeared without any explanation.” No point beating around the bush.  
Izuru has the grace to look slightly affronted. “I wouldn’t say there was no explanation. I already gave you an explanation. You, Abarai, and Matsumoto make a habit of getting yourselves into unlucky situations. I’m practically your fairy godmother, so what the fresh hell are you complaining about?”

“Like you ever actually said why you’re so interested in the first place.”

“Matsumoto is good friend.” He’s gone from affronted to offended, and the way it knits his brows together is so strangely, forlornly sad.

“That’s not all, though, is it.” Shuuhei pushes, and he feels something hectic rattle in his chest every infinitely possible answer. “You said you knew Renji. What’s your tie to him?”

“I think your ties might be a little more interesting. You’re his Familiar, after all.” Izuru’s tone is testy. Dangerous, even. Like ice breaking underfoot and a moon hanging in a starless stretch of sky. His blue fingers pinch the stem of his wine glass like crushing the spine of a snake between his nails. He takes a long sip of wine, and when he throat bobs, a glimpse of bare neck can be seen peeking out from under his high collar.

Blue, like his fingers. Blue skin over his windpipe. Blue trailing underneath his shirt.

“Now, I’ll admit, I’m not terribly intimate with the rules of Witchcraft. A little underground for me, actually. But the thing is- employing a living human being as a Familiar has been outlawed. A taboo was placed on it so powerful that breaking it could paralyze the magic user.”

Shuuhei didn’t actually know that. He swallows a mouthful of wine, and discreetly sputters as it goes down the wrong pipe.

“I’m not saying it’s impossible. Or that witches aren’t infamous for skirting around laws and curses like that, least of all our mutual friend Mr. Abarai.” The reflection of the fire doesn’t show in Izuru’s eyes. No light does. They’re just dark and flat. “But I think unless you had a well a truly horrible experience with a dentist, as well as being naturally athletic to the point of wrestling with a hollow four times your size, we don’t need to toss around theories about you being or not being human.”

“Wow, you’ve got me. It’s almost like normal people don’t have fangs.”

“So what are you, then?” He’s pondering, like it’s some sort of game, eyes all narrow into flat, blue slits. “Not a lycanthrope. Probably not a vampire. Maybe some sort of demon-”

Shuuhei’s patience snaps, and he sets his glass next to the vase on the center table. “Not someone who has to sit around and take shit. Look. Kira. You invited me up here, so why don’t you tell me what for?”

“To cleanse your soul, obviously.” Izuru says hollowly, and couldn’t look less sincere if he were distractedly picking a piece of lint off of his shirt. “This is a confessional. You can confess. I’m legally and spiritually bound to keep anything you tell me in this room. Complete confidentiality.”

“I don’t have anything to confess.” Shuuhei snorts. Perhaps blasphemously, but no godly force has struck him down yet and that’s as good a sign as any to keep going. “You’re just needling me for information. I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I don’t believe it’s all good will and paternalistic fondness deep down. What do really want? What do you want from me, specifically, out of all people?”

Wine flicks autumn colors of red and gold when Izuru swirls it in his glass thoughtfully, catching light. His dark fingers and the wings of the emblem on his finger are tinted purple against the glass, and the opposite hand pillows his chin, with the narrow, icy slits still fixed and squinting Shuuhei’s way. “You don’t know who I am. That’s almost refreshing. Alright, Mr. Familiar. I’ll give you a demo, if only to drive away this ‘stranger danger’ excuse for being obstinate.”

Izuru’s glass drops down next to Shuuhei’s. It doesn’t rattle like glass, though, Doesn’t swish with the liquid inside.

It drops onto the table surface, and it booms.

Like thunder, or a cannon shot, the impact where it meets dark, glossy wood sides a tidal wave of force across the room. And suddenly everything is frozen, stuck in time.

Shuuhei’s body weighs about a million tons, roughly estimating. Like every molecule of his body is suddenly lead and gravity and pure force contracting him into a small point. Squeezing him like the inside of a black hole. And the black hole is opening up, like a weeping, raw wound in reality behind Izuru’s head.

It becomes impossible for Shuuhei to tear his eyes away from that hole, that void haloing the clergyman’s head in startling colorless black like an eclipse or doomsday. The way everything twists sideways and out of it’s place, colors and shapes becoming liquid as the universe decomposes like rotting flesh. The room freefalls, becomes a wet watercolor painting dropped in an ocean, flimsy and chaotic and messy. Surely, this is what the world is going to feel like when it ends all at once.

“Do you know what a Prophet is?” Izuru asks conversationally, he and the chair he sits in being the two objects in this entire room that remains intact. Underneath him, the floor dissolves into mist. The walls around him melt like dripping, dribbling wax and the furniture in the room sink to the ground with bowed legs and stooping frames as if strained under the weight of some terrible burden that nothing can hold. “No, of course you don’t. Sorry. You aren’t religious.”

Thin spider-legged fingers go for the silver zipper on his black coat. The canvas of sallow, light flesh is exposed, etched across in cerulean blue. Black fabric is pulled away to expose a blue omega tattooed onto his throat.

Tattoos are far from a fashion statement among magicfolk. They’re symbols. The only people Shuuhei has seen with tattoos across the span of their bodies are Witches, and powerful ones. Zealots like Renji, who draw power from their devotion to their gods, and mark themselves to be closer to their lords.

Izuru opens his jacket down to his sternum, and there’s not a solid inch of skin that isn’t coated in rich, blue designs, Blocky and swooping, like the handwriting of some ancient and long-forgotten language. An abandoned library stamped right into the man’s skin. Blue, like his fingers. Blue like the serpent on his ring.

“Prophet’s are very rare. There are only a handful of us in the world at a time.” Izuru explains coolly, and Shuuhei is sure he’d fancy himself a reaction or something if he could move his body. Or feel much of anything aside from the sensation of being rooted to one specific point in time and space by every inch of his body, his guts and his bones and his blood and his skin. “We’re considered the ultimate connection to the spiritual world, and have a special relationship with the gods. Since all magic comes from the gods, you could say we’re unique in that regard, too. Some might be so bold as to say that the laws of physics are our playthings.”

Izuru shrugs, like he isn’t quite sure how he feels about that, and the glasses and flower vase on the table begin to drift up and away like helium balloons without his noticing, directionless and weightless. “That aside, we’re all employed by the Church. In fact, most magic users around the world are. Which is- alright, I guess. But it does create a problem when the rules get annoying. A singular organization that guards most of the world’s supply of magic is going to have some pitfalls. You’re following, aren’t you? I’m not seeing a lot of- Oh. Right.”

Izuru scoots forward in his armchair, and plucks his wine glass from it’s three-sixty degree twirl in the air and all at once there’s a snap like a rubber band pulled tight and then released.

The furniture is back in place as if he had never moved, and certainly had never melted. Everything simply slides back into it’s natural placement, and Shuuhei feels a strange, shocking lurch in his bones as he comes back to the ability to control his movements. As if he were waking up suddenly from a dream where he was falling, and for a second his mind can’t quite remember he’s not hurtling towards the ground.

“That’s better.” Izuru leaps back in. “Anyways, I did have ulterior motives. So you’re not wrong about that. But I’m hurt to think that you’d call them sinister.”

“Hurt?” Shuuhei raises an eyebrow and tries to shake off a case of the chills.

“Wounded. Yes.” Izuru sinks back down into his seat, this time kicking his sneakers up on the center table. “I wanted to hire you as back up. Rangiku, too, since she’s the most trustworthy person that someone like me is probably ever going to find. You might know about the catacombs under the city?”

Oh yes. Even Shuuhei knows about the catacombs. As well as the fact that they are cursed as fuck.

“My predecessor- The Prophet of this cathedral before me. He wasn’t the trusting sort.” Izuru’s voice takes a bemused edge, with a hint of malice like a knife on his tongue. “Locked up some tunnel down there ages ago. Didn’t let anyone down there for any reason. Now that he’s gone, I’m interested in seeing what he was hiding.”

Ah, so here comes the nitty-gritty. Shuuhei can fill in the blanks from here. “And you want us to be your bodyguards, since any place that old and dead is bound to have shit with teeth in the corners.”

“‘Bodyguards’ is one way to say it, yeah.” Izuru spreads his elbows out over the armrests. “I’ll pay more than your asking fee. I am, after all, a member of a multinational organization and fabulously philanthropic.”

Did he just call Shuuhei a charity-case? Who cares. “You want me to bring it up with Renji?”

That actually draws a snort from Izuru, a mean kind like Shuuhei just said something foolish and he isn’t trying too hard to spare his feelings. “You can try. Actually, I was hoping you’d be open to doing this without your Witch tagging along. I’m aware this could be difficult, considering the degree of doting on him that you do-”

Doting?

“-But Abarai and I aren’t exactly on-”

Whatever Izuru was about to say, it’s muffled under what sounds suspiciously like the building rumbling just slightly, all groaning bricks and creaking floorboards. Like thunder that’s awfully close to the heart of the storm.

“Ah, that must be him.”

Oh shit. Shuuhei is out the door before Izuru can get another word in, feet pounding down the stairs so hard he risks tripping and snapping his neck no less than seven times on the way down.

Not just anyone on the gods’ green earth is equipped to deal with an angry Renji Abarai. In fact, only one person is. And that person is his Familiar and also probably the person he’s angry at. Which has the potential to be quite a conundrum.

Before Shuuhei’s boots skid down the halls to the front hall, he can hear the telltale warbling symphony of Renji and Rangiku arguing. Not petty squabbles this time, nor the usual teasing and taunting. Rangiku’s voice is high and shrill, while Renji’s has that gravelly growl, both of which are warning indicators of grave danger. Whoo boy.

So Shuuhei is entirely unsurprised to open the door and find Renji looking like he made it halfway to storming up the aisle before the immovable wall of Rangiku stopped him, black magic crackling like electricity in his rigidly set arms. Suddenly, both sets of eyes are in Shuuhei’s direction. Which is really unfortunate.

“I can explain.” Shuuhei says automatically. And latently he realizes this may not exactly make him look innocent or trustworthy or anything.

Which doesn’t seems to have been a good move, since Renji has his arms folded over his chest and a deep scowl etched on his face, waiting for just that. “Really, now?”

“Well.” Shuuhei doesn’t actually have an explanation aside from the truth, which he belatedly realizes. “… How’d you find us here?”

Renji rolls his eyes, lips pulled tight in a sneer over his teeth. “We do share a soul, you know. Funny that I’d find the only being in the universe I can say that to in this place-” Renji gesticulated around him with a sweep of his arm distastefully, as if it were beneath him. “Of all places. I thought I made it pretty fucking clear that this shithole is a waste dump of human time and enterprise. I can’t believe you’d even set foot in here!”

Rangiku goes cherry-colored in the face, brows furrowed deeply like she’s imaging Renji spread out on a cutting board with her sword ready for dissection. “You can’t tell him where to go. However you on the other hand are free to leave any any time.

Shuuhei didn’t notice Izuru skulking up behind him, matchstick frame peering around Shuuhei’s in the doorway like a curtain. But he certainly noticed Renji noticing.

Renji exhales like he’s breathing fire, or dripping venom down his teeth and onto the brick floor. His arms are still locked in front of his chest, silver rings glittering on his fingers like animal claws, and even in his closed-off posture he seems to loom dangerously, spine curved in a way that resonates of an animal raising its hackles.

“We’re going.” Is the announcement, in a dry voice that tastes like acid and with eyes fixed into beady, boar-like pinpricks.

There’s deafening quiet on Izuru’s end. Shuuhei would expect something- anything, really. A sarcastic quip or a puzzling word of vague wisdom, but if anything like that rises to the Prophet’s thoughts, it’s sealed behind tight, thin lips. The lid’s of Izuru’s eyes are heavy, and tired-looking. Like he was expecting this. Like it’s not the first time this has happened.

He offers no response when Renji shoves his finger in Izuru’s direction accusingly, which is particularly something when Shuuhei has seen Renji shoot lightning bolts and raise the dead with that hand. Underneath Renji’s sneakers, the cathedral floor rattles like dry bones. “You stay the hell away from us! I already got enough trouble from you th’ last time, and I don’t want none of the shit that goes on in your precious lil’ house of cards. Shuuhei, Rangiku. We’re leaving.”

“You don’t order me.” Rangiku sets her feet apart solidly, like a dare. Hands on her hips and a sneer drawing her face tightly.

She’s right, of course. Renji has no power over her. Shuuhei, on the other hand- Renji’s eyes round on him, unhappy and expectant. “Shuuhei.”

When he dares to glance past Renji and to Rangiku, she gives him an expectant look of her own. A nod, like she thinks he’s going to stand up and tell Renji to cool off. Shuuhei’s eyes go back to the Witch’s. “Fine.”  
For all Izuru’s silence, he might not even still be there at all. Nothing stops Shuuhei from following Renji back down the rows of pews, footsteps echoing hollowly. Excluding Rangiku’s look of disbelief, the tight lines of her shoulders pushed back broad and angry.  
When Renji throws open the doors, it isn’t raining anymore. Shuuhei must have been in there for longer than he thought, though everything seemed to spin by so quickly. The brick streets are still shiny, like polished metal, from the slick rain. Water skids away from Renji’s shoes as he continues stomping down the streets.  
Shuuhei has barely enough time to roll his scarf back up his face, covering his mouth, while keeping up. He expects some kind of interrogation, the third-degree. What was he doing in a Church establishment. What did he talk to Izuru about. Anything that will put the paranoia in Renji’s gut to rest.  
But Shuuhei has questions of his own, and he scowls while mulling them as he trails on Renji’s heels. Witches hate the Church. They’re bad competition for business, like Izuru said with them being the biggest conglomeration of magic-users, but that’s never seemed to be a suitable reason considering Renji’s rage-hate. And that look, when he saw Izuru-

Makes Shuuhei review what the Prophet said to him on the train a little more closely. As well as his offer in the confessional.

But Renji doesn’t ask, nor does he give Shuuhei the chance to run an inquisition of his own. He stops, in the middle of the road, letting Shuuhei barrel right into his back. “We should get home. I’ll Witch Way us. It’ll be faster.”

“Wait a sec,” Shuuhei counters, feeling his stomach go in knots. “Can we talk, first-”

He’s cut off by the time Renji turns on his heels, face tense and eyes sparking. The rings make a steel sound when Renji snaps his fingers, a touch of black electricity sparking from his thumb.

Shuuhei already knows what’s happening, but his stomach lurches all the same when the spell takes hold. The most irritating, bossy, in-fucking-considerate thing Renji can do is to shape-shift him without his permission, and this is a fact that he knows well enough to only do when he’s well and truly, truly mad. The stuffy, smothering sense of shadows engulfing Shuuhei like a blanket, and the jarring sensation of everything being huge and frightening when the blanket is pulled away.

This is the final goddamn straw in Shuuhei sitting through Renji’s temper tantrum, and he would tell him this in a very heated and probably not very eloquent or polite way if he could open his mouth and make any noise that wasn’t furious, shrill squeaking.

Renji towers above Shuuhei. Like, literally towers above. For lack of vocal ability to attack him, Shuuhei would settle for a rude gesture if his suddenly tiny paws were capable of such. The Witch stoops down, knee looking dangerously huge where it slams against stone a mere few inches away. Although, to be fair, inches are now proportionally much further away than they were before.

An enormous hand scoops Shuuhei up, and beady little rat-eyes glare balefully at his Witch. He hardly even notices when the dark, jagged slashes of Renji’s tattoos start to wind out of his shirtsleeves like snakes and wrap around in a person-sized shell.

The cocoon engulfs both Witch and Familiar and they sink into the Witch Way, leaving no trace to wash away in the street. Except for an offer made back in the cathedral tower, and a decision Shuuhei made that he would have to return for. Possibly some tunnels to spelunk.


End file.
